Free Dying on Principle by Judith Cutler Page A

driver opened his own. He winced so badly as he got out I thought for a moment he was ill and needed help, but he soon straightened and applied a social smile. Richard Fairfax.
    â€˜I believe you were heading for Harborne, Ms Rivers. May I offer you a lift?’ He walked round now to the passenger door, and the smile edged closer to his eyes. ‘You can write down my number first if you like. It’s what my daughters did.’
    Laughing, I did just that, and accepted his invitation.
    The price was answering a series of questions which provided him with information about me: it felt more like a preliminary job interview than anything, particularly as he was disinclined to answer any of my questions. I did learn that he had had his family when he was young, and that both daughters were completely independent now; living in the USA. A Mrs Fairfax, if one existed, did not merit a mention. Oh, and he travelled a lot.
    â€˜Just got in from Saudi Arabia,’ he said casually. ‘Arrived about eleven yesterday morning. I know I ought to delegate, but I like to make sure the job’s well done. I slept through a lot of that concert, I’m afraid.’
    Could he possibly be making an oblique reference to and apology for his odd behaviour over the raffle tickets? I couldn’t tell.
    From me he extracted a brief CV, which did not excite him. He did ask a couple of questions about George Muntz College, to which I felt it politic to reply with reasonable enthusiasm. And then we established I was to return to William Murdock as soon as our computer project was complete.
    That took us to Harborne Baths. To get us to Balden Road I mentioned the inconvenience of my bouncing Barclaycard. He offered computer error as a possible cause. I agreed.
    His courtesy extended to opening my door from the outside and escorting me to my door. We bowed, like occidental Japanese, and that was that.

8
    Friday might as well have been in February as May. I don’t think it got properly light all day, and rain sluiced down, soaking me in the couple of hundred yards or so between home and George Muntz. Four uniformed constables looked self-conscious and cold on the steps. Inside, the foyer was now in absolute chaos, with the whine of drills and a couple of radios on competing wavelengths.
    I lounged over to Peggy, who was all too delighted to tell me what was going on. The police were finding out who’d been in the building on Tuesday evening and were interviewing them. Moreover – it was clear where her priorities lay – the deputy chief executive had decreed that only administrative staff were to be admitted to what was to be called the Executive Suite. Or was it Management Suite? That was Hector’s theory. Whatever it was, it was not for the hoi polloi: students and academic staff were equally unwelcome.
    â€˜And do you know what he called you lecturers?’ demanded Peggy, wide-eyed. ‘He called you a shower. “The blue-collar shower”, that was what he called you.’
    â€˜Was it indeed? I thanked providence – which watches, of course, even sparrows – that I was soon to return to the Spartan but familiar William Murdock. But not as quickly as the new inhabitant of my room apparently believed.
    All my belongings now sat in a heap on my chair. He had logged into my computer and was tapping determinedly away. He was so busy that he didn’t notice when I came up behind him. Little bursts of asterisks, eh? And repeated ‘Access denied’ messages on the screen.
    â€˜Hunting for my password, are you? Try “piss off”,’ I said.
    And he did!
    â€˜Never heard of irony?’ I asked, reaching across and switching off. ‘What are you after, sunshine?’
    â€˜Don’t sunshine me!’ He struggled to his feet, all six foot plus and beer belly of him.
    â€˜What else should I call you? I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I presume